as we walk past neat green lawns. Bless you, I say,

clearly, with emphasis. This speaking to creatures

who do not respond is an echo of something earned,

of time spent teaching. It’s awkward this business

of language acquisition. When you were in your stroller, 

I learned to talk slowly, stacking syllables like train cars 

in the rail yard. See the plane? Hear the truck? I learned 

how to point out topics of interest: fire trucks, men in hats, 

other babies. I learned to stuff under my discomfort being home

in the middle of the day. Back then, no cellphones, no screens, 

just you pointing, me babbling modeling noun-verb construction 

as you watch me talk. As if linguistics came ready made with 

our ten fingers, ten toes, the time before tree, cat, mama, 

is unremembered. Making a home for a spring-blooming shrub, 

I sink my shovel in earth, stoop over the hole setting aside the crawlers, 

the wigglers, and mutter a soft apology for disturbing the worms.